


Has Anyone Successfully Avada Kedavra’d Themselves?

by french_charlotte



Series: Other People's Choices: Draco's Side of the Story [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Good Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Prefects, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Spy Draco Malfoy, Wholesome teenage love, asking out on first date, dramione - Freeform, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_charlotte/pseuds/french_charlotte
Summary: After pumping himself up, Draco selects a late night prefects meeting as an opportune time to ask Hermione out on a date to Hogsmeade.  He's a marked Death Eater. The Heir to the Malfoy Legacy. A protege spy for the Order. A renowned Slytherin god. But asking a girl out on an innocent date...How can something so simple be so nerve-wracking and anxiety inducing? Wholesome Dramione.This is fanfiction of fanfiction. A "missing chapter" from Jewelburns's story, "The Choices We Made". Set in Draco's POV.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: Other People's Choices: Draco's Side of the Story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914247
Kudos: 59





	Has Anyone Successfully Avada Kedavra’d Themselves?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Choices We Made](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726043) by [JewelBurns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewelBurns/pseuds/JewelBurns). 



> This is a "missing chapter" from my sister's story, "The Choices We Made". It's a wonderfully written story that's worth a binge read with a lovely mix of genres. The original story is set in Snape and Harry's POV but with some solid Dramione and Draco time. I've got a few works for it that are exclusively in Draco's POV. As they're 'piggyback chapters' to complement the main storyline, they'll be published periodically when deemed appropriate timing. 
> 
> Warnings: Just cavity-inducing sweet. This is wholesome, innocent, good-loving teenage awkwardness.
> 
> Author Note: This is fanfiction and clearly breaks from canon. It would be super beneficial to read the main story. Even if you don't before reading this little slice of heaven, definitely check it out afterwards.

“No, this sounds like a great plan. Ernie and I will decorate three extra floors than the rest of you all. Which is fine. It’s no problem.” 

Padma’s quill increased its tapping on the parchment as she stared across the table strewn with Christmas decoration plans. If Draco cared more, or if he wasn’t so preoccupied with his own thoughts, he would’ve found the Ravenclaw’s glowering look amusing. “ _Is_ it no problem, Hannah?” Padma asked in a flat voice. 

The Hufflepuff prefect shrugged a shoulder, making a wheat colored pigtail shift. “Huh? No! I said it was no problem at all. I mean, we’ll have to adjust our schedules to cover more ground but we can manage. It’d be nice if you wanted to contribute more, but only if it’s not going to be terribly imposing. Otherwise, this plan is perfect.” 

The tip of Padma’s quill broke with a dull clink. 

Draco took a breath, inflating his cheeks, and leaned back in his chair with laced fingers behind his head. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff prefects continued to stare at one another, the former clawing at all of her cold, emotionless logic in hopes that it would apply some sense to the situation. The prefects meeting had been in full swing for hours as the eight students discussed and planned the minutiae details of merrymaking and holiday happiness. Decorating the castle was one of the ‘joys’ of being a prefect. Naturally, the Ravenclaws took it upon themselves to draft the plans - having already created a mountain of blueprints, diagrams, and lists that confused Draco - and somehow expected the rest of the prefects to simply agree with everything. 

Any other day, the Slytherin would’ve been toe to toe with Pansy in dishing out insults and criticism and attempting to shirk themselves of all responsibility. He didn’t want to put up Christmas decorations. He wasn’t even going to be at Hogwarts for Christmas. 

But his thoughts were filled with dread and fear of what he was about to do after the meeting. His eyes kept straying towards the Gryffindors - specifically Hermione because he would never willingly look at the Weasel - and his stomach tied in thicker knots. 

He could do this. He _had_ to do it after the meeting. There would be no other opportunity. Due to the complex nature of the prefect meeting, it stretched long into the night, past curfew, and would grant him the rare window of opportunity to get Hermione alone. Her icy disposition and cold shouldering to the Weasel would take care of the Gryffindor charity case that would normally have been attached to her side, dry humping her leg in all of the patheticness that he was. 

Merlin, he really hated him. 

Anthony Goldstein’s pragmatic voice dragged the Slytherin back to the meeting. “This is a brainstorming session, Hannah. If there’s something on the plans that you disagree with, now’s the time to speak up.” 

Draco didn’t even bother holding back his groan of annoyance as he closed his eyes. For as intelligent and logical as Ravenclaws were, they really were brilliantly stupidly. Indirectly accusing a Hufflepuff of disagreeing had the immediate effects he anticipated. 

A gasp came seconds before Hannah’s worried tone did. “Disagreeing? Oh no. No, no, no! I wasn’t disagreeing. I…” Draco cracked his eyes open a sliver to watch her shake her head repeatedly, pigtails flicking back and forth at an amusing speed. “I was actually complimenting your work! It's a lovely plan but if you were to reconsider the division of floors, it would be really helpful if maybe we can get more help on ours. But no, really, it’s fine. We don’t mind it. And it’s great and will make sure you have _a lot_ of extra time to do other things - I’m sure important things - while we work.” 

Padma threw her hands up in the air. “I’m sorry but can we have a brainstorming session without passive aggression? How am I supposed to alter these plans with… with _this_ kind of feedback?! This isn’t constructive!” 

The Hufflepuff prefect dropped her head in her hands, her burden apparently too much to bear. 

The scene at least gave Draco a nice chuckle and distraction from his nerves. “I use active aggression and you don’t seem to like that, either. What kind of aggression _is_ helpful to these meetings, Padma?” 

The Slytherin female prefect beside him laughed at his joke. Everyone else, especially the Gryffindors, sent annoyed glares at him. For a second, Draco and Hermione’s eyes met, and he hoped that his humor had warmed her up to him to make his feat easier. But the cold, narrow-eyed look told him he definitely missed his mark. 

_Work on my charming wit around her,_ he added to a growing mental list in his head. 

The rest of the prefect meeting went on with the same rocky course. The Ravenclaws seemed resistant to any change that wasn’t supported with coherent, solid deduction. If there was no objectivity to a suggestion, they were adamant about following their plan. ‘It’s logical’ and ‘We did calculations on workflow productivity…’ were their chief arguments. And Draco, still wallowing in his own nerves, just let it be for now. 

What did he care? He would get some younger year to put up the damn decorations. 

Eventually, when the hour was so late that not even pale moonlight flooded into the room, and the passage outside their meeting room was deathly silent, they adjourned their meeting. Almost all of the prefects were grouchy and tired and muttered half-hearted farewells as they shouldered their schoolbags and trudged towards the door. Draco’s own bag felt like it was filled with limestones and bricks, so weighty and uncomfortable on his panicking body. Luckily, Hermione seemed to be taking her time in departing; the Malfoy heir didn’t miss the dodgy look she flicked over at Ron, who didn’t wait for Hermione before ushering himself out of the room quickly in search of his bed. 

Pansy was easy enough to dodge. She accepted Draco’s lie at face value when he told her he needed some air after the exhausting meeting. If she wasn’t so tired herself she probably would’ve pouted and told him she would’ve waited around for him, or even offered her own company during his requested moments of solitude. It was in her nature to insert herself around powerful personalities and influential figures when and where she could. She was malleable and naive to a fault and tended to mold herself into a shadow of those around her. 

It churned his stomach to think it, but Pansy could’ve been a young Bellatrix at some point. And unless Potter finally got over his Muggle disease, Pansy would be given the chance to become a Death Eater protege. 

Shoving those thoughts to the side, Draco focused on what was important and lay directly ahead of him. Hermione. Hogsmeade. Right. 

Knowing exactly where the Gryffindor princess was headed, he easily cut through the castle, upsetting a few portraits along the way and earning tired, grumpy words from them. Turning sharply down a narrow passage Filch used, the blonde slipped out into the dark main vestibule that was only a few turns from Gryffindor tower. At first he worried that he lingered for too long, that his spying and trailing tactics were paltry at best and he couldn’t even manage to follow Granger at a distance. 

But then he saw her telltale brown hair creating a frizzy crown around her shadowed head. And for a moment, he felt triumphant until he realized that she was walking _towards_ him. He’d beaten her to the tower. 

And now he was standing near it, awkwardly, when the Slytherin dungeons were in the damn near opposite direction. 

As a Malfoy, he was groomed to always be prepared in every venture and expedition he placed on his horizon. His father was a shrewd businessman, charismatic and as fatal with his words as he was with his wand, just as his father and his fathers had been before him. Malfoy Apothecaries and their subsidiaries hadn’t grown to be the lucrative empire it was without an intense level of acumen and preparation. And from a young age, it had been drilled into Draco that preparation was the key ingredient to being intelligent on any topic. Men weren’t born inherently stupid; they became that way through laziness and pacification. They accepted that they would be lesser and subservient to those branded for greatness. 

A Malfoy was branded for greatness. A Malfoy was able to dissect a situation for what it was, find the vulnerable joints that would flex with the right amount of pressure, and exert influence where it needed to be placed. They were masters of spinning webs, authors of intricate lies that fed into their wealth, and had an uncanny ability of judging a person’s worth to their cause. 

Draco had idolized his father for so long, and had placed his father on an impossible pedestal when he was a boy that he completely missed so much of those Malfoy teachings. His mother, on the other hand, had her own way of handling things. She was discrete and somehow knew how to wield the shadows to her will when she needed them to. For an aristocratic woman who kept elite social circles, to somehow evade attention was impressive. 

And that left Draco somewhere in between the two. 

When he’d finally come up with the nerve to admit his attraction to the Muggle-born Gryffindor princess, he realized that he was entirely out of his element. Not only was she decidingly _not_ Pureblood, but she had hated him. _Had_ hated him? She stopped though, right? They’d certainly been much friendlier lately. He didn’t read the signs wrong, had he? Sure, their history was mucked full of poor interactions - he’d been wrapped up in his father’s world, born and raised on Pureblood supremacy ideals, and hated the notion of Muggles being invited to their world when they had been banished from theirs. Why should a Muggle be allowed to live with a foot in both worlds when a wizard couldn’t do the same? A Muggle-born witch could have a harmonious dual life without missing out on something in one of the worlds. The wizarding world didn’t demand that Muggles must _legally_ dress as wizards do, that they _must_ conform to their ways or face the full penalty of the laws. But a wizard _had_ to do that if visiting the Muggle world. Why did wizards have to bend over backwards for Muggles, for the people who persecuted and burned and tortured their kind? 

No. Draco shook his head. He wouldn’t let himself get tempted down _that_ line of thinking again. That line of thinking led to fanatical insanity. It led to psychoticism like his Aunt Bella. 

Hermione was getting closer. Clearly, she must’ve seen his tall, lanky figure standing there, his mind and thoughts zooming every which way. 

He was a Malfoy and his father’s son. And he had done _some_ kind of preparation for this planned meeting. He couldn’t very well have asked Pansy for female advice; she would’ve pressed and badgered him on who the lucky girl was, or gotten jealous. Probably both. But it wouldn’t have served him any purpose. No, he needed someone who wasn’t invested in his life, or the rumor mongering crowds of Hogwarts. He needed someone who didn’t so much care who Draco Malfoy fancied and had plans to court. 

At the time, Moaning Myrtle had _sounded_ like a good idea. But getting dating advice from a dead girl who had never really had a boyfriend or dated at all didn’t yield very good results. 

_“Ok, let’s go over this again. What do I do when she says ‘no’?”_

_“Mmmm…. We’ve already talked about that. What about if she says yes?”_

_That had given Draco a pause. “I don’t know! I mean, I guess I’ll say ‘cool’. Or ‘great, see you at Hogsmeade’. Or something. That’ll come to me in the moment. But when she turns me down, I can’t just hex her and walk away. Well, I could but I shouldn’t.” Draco had raked his hands through his hair. “Besides, she won’t say yes.”_

_Myrtle smiled. “If you’re so sure she’ll say no, why are you even asking her?”_

_“What are you my therapist now? I’m here for girl advice. You’re a bloody ghost! Of course you wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?” He stormed out of the bathroom. It would be a few hours before he’d return, though, and go through the entire conversation again with her._

In the end, Myrtle had proven to be unhelpful. He should’ve asked Filch for all the help the damn ghost was. 

Staring at Hermione’s quickly approaching figure that was clearly tense with anticipation, having seen him standing there, Draco felt his temperature soar. The corridor suddenly felt oppressively hot despite the chilly night, and with shaky fingers, he reached up to loosen his tie, though that didn’t help much. Air felt clammy and clawing, and beads of sweat began to spurt on his brow. He could turn and leave, abort the mission and try again some other time. Yes. That was the sensible thing. Clearly, he was misinformed, poorly prepared and wasn’t ready to take on this level of- 

“Malfoy?” 

He was half-turned when Hermione’s guarded voice made him freeze. For a fleeting moment, he considered simply reaching for his wand, tossing a quick hex at her, and sprinting down the rest of the corridor. But if he were to be caught, that would bring the wrong kind of attention his way. And attention was the last thing he needed with his covert identity. 

Turning back to her, Draco swallowed thickly and wondered why it was so hot. So unbearably hot. “Granger.” The normal sneer in his voice was gone - not good for playing it off - but he was impressed he managed to keep his tone neutral. “How can I help you?” 

She blinked then looked from him to the empty, dark passage around them pointedly. “You… are you… alright?” Her eyes dipped a bit to take in his loosened tie before flicking back up to his flushed face and his hair now dampened with sweat. “You don’t look well at all.” Suddenly grabbing onto his shoulder, she half-dragged him towards a small window casting a generous well of bright moonlight on them. Clearly misinterpreting his panicked features for illness, her frown deepened. “Malfoy, you look awful!” 

This was never in the script between him and Myrtle. He thought back to what the ghost had said during one of their many horrible role playing skits where she took too much joy in being a ditzy, flirting schoolgirl who couldn’t be further from Hermione. She’d never mentioned that he looked ‘awful’ - really, Granger, _awful_? - and would normally just dish out inane compliments on his handsome features. That he could work with. That he was familiar with. But this -- this was uncharted territory. 

“Awful,” he lamely repeated and felt a new wave of heat splash over him as his stomach twisted worse. He wondered if anyone had successfully _Avada Kedavra_ ’d themselves. If nothing else, there was the window next to them and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t survive that fall. “I’m...um…. I was just going to… the… the… common room.” 

The witch raised her brows at him. “The common room? Which common room? The dungeons are back at the entrance hall, Malfoy. You know, seven floors below us.” 

“Oh… yeah. Right. That…” He stared at her for a few moments. A Malfoy. Master at deception and lies, and yet when he needed to come up with a plausible lie for himself, his mind blanked and he panicked worse. “I was lost.” 

The slivers of silver moonlight reflected in her brown eyes much in the opposite way that it was absorbed in his grey ones. It was alluring, more so when she tilted her head slightly like she did during potions, when she was challenged and trying her hardest to figure out a difficult problem. It was the only class he excelled above her. And considering him with the same scrutiny she gave a complex potion, she eyed him over slowly. 

“Six years in this castle and you were lost?” She looked like she was torn between accusing him of doing something nefarious and being genuinely worried. In the end, the latter won out and she sighed. “You look dreadful and-and if you honestly thought you were near the dungeons, I think you should see Madam Pomfrey.” She reached for his arm. “Here, I’ll help you-” 

“Do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me this Saturday?” 

She froze with her hand still wrapped around his forearm, prepared to drag him to the healer, and stared up at him. “Do I want to go where?” 

That look from her made Draco suddenly regret all of his life choices. Stupid. He was stupid. This was stupid. He should’ve just stuck with his gut, listened to the bloody ghost and not have even attempted this. But the witch’s warm fingers - so thin and fragile compared to his - were still frozen around his arm. His left forearm. 

Despite any hesitations she had with him, she had cast them aside, listening to her courageous and good-natured heart to do the right thing. She had reached for him with the intent of helping when she should’ve had all logic and sense to run from a Slytherin lingering outside of her common rooms like a stalker. But that benevolence - that blinding, brilliant benevolence - guided her elsewhere, filled her with a courage he used to mock and poke fun at. He used to say that was why Gryffindors never lived long; they were always shoving their noses where they didn’t belong, having a stronger sense of ‘doing the right thing’ instead of instinctive self-preservation. 

But there was nothing to mock here. Not when her fingers were separated from the Dark Mark by a thin layer of fabric. 

It was _stupid_. He was stupid. He didn’t deserve someone as caring and courageous, someone who could see through a haughty shell. He didn’t deserve that kind of happiness. Shaking his head, he pulled his arm back to himself and turned from her. “Nevermind.” 

He got maybe three steps before she spoke, this time making him freeze. 

“Yes. I would like to go with you.” 

Slowly pivoting on his feet, he turned back to regard her with a questioning look and did mental backflips. What was he supposed to say when she agreed? Him and Myrtle never went over that part; he was relying on his masculine bravado to carry him to victory. But now, caught in a dormant corridor with only an audience of slumbering portraits, staring at a witch with a mousy explosion of hair, illuminated by the radiant glow of the moon, he had no idea what he was supposed to say. 

_Words._ He thought to himself. _Words would be good right about now, Draco._

Instead he just stared at her. 

Chewing on her lower lip to try to stop a girlish smile, Hermione waved a hand, gesturing around the hall. “Is that why you were here? You were following to ask me?” 

Draco felt his mouth go dry. “I was lost,” he repeated numbly. Yes, good, stick with that lie. “Erm… but you said yes? Really? To Hogsmeade?” 

Nodding slowly, any apprehension that she had seemed to have fed away to some kind of amusement. Which only baffled Draco even more. He was a sweating, panicking mess and she looked at him in amusement and fascination. “Well, you can join me, that is. We go together in a group.” She paused a moment. “Unless you were asking me out on a date.” 

The boy took a slow breath and raked his fingers through his hair, disheveling the blonde bangs that were still damp from his own nerves. “I mean, it’s a day so it theoretically has a _date_ . All day’s do. So if we’re being technical about it, it _is_ a date.” 

Hermione stared at him. “Then I suppose theoretically, we’re going on a date.” 

He stared back. “Right. We are then, aren’t we?” Why was this so difficult? He wasn’t new to girls - he’d been with plenty of girls in the past. Granted, none he’d officially went out on dates with, but bringing a girl to bed seemed like it would be infinitely more nerve-wracking than just asking a witch to enjoy one measly afternoon sipping butterbeers and eating lavender ice cream. That was wholesome. Bedding a girl was lascivious. But somehow leagues easier to achieve. 

Maybe because the girls he’d bedded weren’t quite to the caliber of Hermione ‘Brightest Witch of Her Age’ Granger. They were desperate with low-esteem and easily swayed by his charming words, attractiveness, and incredible wealth. Especially the wealth. 

Great. Now they were both staring at each other, the date determined and set, and he didn’t know etiquette for how to end this. They weren’t dating _now_ so was he still expected to walk her to the Gryffindor tower like a decent gentleman? The fat lady portrait wasn’t far, she could manage on her own for sure. And following her would just make things more awkward between them as they’d be forced to fill in the silence with mundane conversation or pleasant chatter. 

No, he should definitely just go back to the dungeons. Or jump out the window. 

A brow lifted as the corners of her lips quirked back into a grin. “Draco? If you’re lost - and I’m still not entirely convinced that you’re well - I should escort you to Madam Pomfrey. Or at the very least the Entrance Hall.” She laughed a little. “There won’t be a Hogsmeade date if you’re on your deathbed, or wandering the castle at night, lost.” 

But he ignored the last part of her words. And for a moment, he said nothing, surprised at the sound of his given name on her tongue. For years, they’d taunted each other by their surnames, finding the moniker's coldness easier to divorce themselves from the idea of developing empathy for the others. She was a dirty Muggle-born and he was a Pureblood supremacist and criminal’s son. To use a given name was to put warmth and vitality in another, was to see them as a person and your equal. 

And for the first time in a very long time, he felt incredibly vulnerable standing there, finally seen by her. 

“I should go,” he mumbled and briefly lowered his stare down to the ground, eyeing a smudge on his dragonhide shoes. But he found some reserve of nerve and forced a queasy chuckle. “We both know I wasn’t lost.” 

The comment was meant to be suave and flirtatious, the type that would swoon girls with his boyish charms. Readjusting the bag over his shoulder, he was prepared to depart with that bewitching line, hoping it would salvage some of his bruised pride, when Hermione saddled up beside him. She placed a hand on his wrist and nodded towards the opposite hall where the stairs were. 

“And we both know that the Slytherin common rooms are much farther than mine.” She sent him a sideways look filled with confidence and conviction. Of course Gryffindors would have the gull and courage in flirting. It almost made Draco jealous if it didn’t turn him on as fierce as it did. “So let’s continue to pretend that you’re lost and I’ll continue to pretend that you need an escort down to the Entrance Hall.” 

And as they descended the stairs and somehow fell into a comfortable conversation about what they both enjoyed most about Hogsmeade, Draco decided that flirting was yet another subject Granger bested him on. 

**Author's Note:**

> I survive on kudos, comments, and coffee.


End file.
